


Coffee Spills

by KivaEmber



Series: Persona 5 Oneshots [19]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oneshot Series, Persona 5: The Royal, Post-Canon, Post-Persona 5, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25017136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivaEmber/pseuds/KivaEmber
Summary: Collection of oneshots post-P5, mainly self-indulgent Akechi/Akiren stuff3. Nightmares:Ever since the Phantom Thieves, ever since Maruki, ever since his own incarceration, however brief, and the conclusion of Shido’s trial, a new set of nightmares had come to roost. Sharp-fanged, always able to draw blood when they deigned to descend upon him, more difficult to brush off after jerking awake, soaked in cold sweat and panting like a cornered prey animal.Here’s one such nightmare:Everything is dark except for the occasional flash of a klaxon alarm, an artificial voice cheerfully announcing that the bulkhead is closed. He’s crawling on the floor trying to get out, but he can’t breathe, he’s bleeding to death, and no one’s coming for him, he is alone, alone to die, and there is the scraping of Shadows’ claws and the light steps of his cognitive self easily catching up to him, click of a pistol’s safety andHe wakes up.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Persona 5 Oneshots [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101845
Comments: 16
Kudos: 239





	1. Happy Ending

Akira still marvelled over obtaining a ‘happy ending’. 

It wasn’t the fairy tale sort Maruki tried to drown them in: the evil monster slain and the heroes’ wishes come true, dead mothers and dead fathers returning to their grieving children, and hands dirtied from bad decisions that led to atrocity were washed squeaky clean in hollow redemption. 

Their happy ending was the dirty, real kind: they returned to their reality, dead mothers and dead fathers stayed dead and their grieving children grieved again, and hands dirtied from bad decisions that led to atrocity stayed dripping red on fingers splayed wide in surrender. 

Except one fairy tale component remained: a dead man came back with them. 

It made Akira think about the story of Izanagi leading Izanami from the Underworld. Goro had walked in Akira’s shadow, a bubbling cauldron of angry, bitter words and prickling spines, and Akira hadn’t looked back once at him, hadn’t doubted that he would follow. Maybe because of that, the Underworld had let him out when the fantasy ended, huddled safely within Akira’s shadow despite it being the place he claimed to hate most. 

This would be when reality would ensue: Goro cheated death, only to tumble into the cold, steel arms of the law and swallowed whole, but the happy ending continued. 

A messy case about _coercion_ , _culpability_ , _diminished responsibility, plea bargain_ and other legal terms that Sae wielded with the careful precision of a surgeon performing open heart surgery. Akira had watched the news about it. Shido had been tarred and feathered, as he should, but everything came out - _everything_ \- and Goro was crushed under the polarising weight of public opinion. Wildly veering from pity to recrimination, his past stretched out like a butterfly on a pinboard for the whole world to see. 

Shido went to jail, execution date pending. Goro was given a suspended sentence, ordered to attend mandatory therapy, and so long as he behaved well and didn’t get so much as a parking ticket in the next three years, he was free. It was the happiest ending Goro could even hope to get. 

It wasn’t the tidiest happy ending, or the best - dead parents, crimes unable to be taken back or forgotten - but Akira wasn’t complaining. 

* * *

“I feel lied to.”

Akira looked up from where he was putting the groceries away. 

Goro was perched on the creaky stool at their breakfast bar, tapping his biro against his chin as he squinted at his journal. It wasn’t the same one Goro had brought back from his first therapy session like it was a diseased animal he was forced to carry (that one had been filled from cover to back, and was stored at the bottom of Goro’s sock drawer), but it already had a well-worn look about it that said it was accustomed to being crammed into the bottom of Goro’s bag. 

“You think everything's a lie,” Akira said after a pause, where Goro looked at him expectantly from beneath his eyelashes, “You once told me the economy is a scam.”

“It is,” said Goro, currently in his first year of his economics degree, “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Akira shoved the last of his groceries in his fridge - cheap bulk ingredients for curry, the main sustenance of two university students where one of them only knew how to push the buttons on a microwave.

Goro filled the silence as he always did, “They said this would get easier as time goes by, but I’m finding it really isn’t.”

“Hm,” Akira closed the fridge. The front of it had a whole alphabet of fridge magnets arranged into _‘OUT OF MILK’._ Akira knew he’d forgotten something. 

“I fill out these journals,” Goro continued. His biro was tapping the breakfast bar now, a rapid-fire _‘tptptptpt’_ that impossibly gained speed, “I attend my sessions. I go to university. I am _not_ currently rotting in a jail cell next to my worthless father. My life is miraculously being scraped back together despite me feeding it into the metaphorical woodchipper.” 

“Yeah, your self-destructive meltdown was pretty epic,” Akira agreed. 

Goro’s biro stopped tapping, his gaze lowered to somewhere in the middle distance. 

“And,” he started, haltingly. His affected air of casualness was wavering, but Akira waited it out. He made coffee while he did: Goro’s favourite, with enough sugar to make Sojiro weep. Akira supposed it was lucky Goro’s trial wasn’t on his coffee tastes, because he would probably get life with no parole. 

“It still feels hard,” Goro finished quietly, something in his tone saying that this wasn’t what he was originally going to say. Akira put his coffee down in front of him. 

“It’ll always be hard, I think,” Akira said, “You don’t show it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No,” Goro sighed, setting his biro down and roughly tugging his hand through his hair, “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Akira waited, but Goro didn’t continue. He was hunkered down on the creaky stool, shoulders rounded and tense, elbows on the edge of the breakfast bar and drawn in tight. It was his ‘hedgehog curl’, as Akira fondly deemed it, and it meant Goro didn’t want to be prodded. 

_even though he initiated the whole thing,_ he thought wryly.

“I’m working at Leblanc tomorrow,” Akira said, diverting the conversation from Goro’s very brief flash of vulnerability, “You want to come with and mooch free coffee off of Boss?”

It worked. Goro’s posture loosened, and his expression was openly happy at the prospect. While Goro’s relationship with the other Phantom Thieves ranged from awkward to cold war levels, Sojiro thankfully did not show any kind of hostility or dislike despite Goro’s very heavy hand in Isshiki’s death. Boss normally seemed tired around Goro, in a sad and frustrated sort of way. 

Akira wondered if he couldn’t help but think how old Goro must’ve been when he pulled the trigger. Futaba’s age.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Goro said, then, softer, in a low purring tone; “It _has_ been a while since I saw you in that apron.”

Akira huffed out a laugh, liking the playful lean of Goro’s torso against the breakfast bar, “You know Boss’ll be there, right? Don’t think he’ll tolerate you ravishing me on the counter.”

“I’m patient,” Goro picked up his awful syrupy black coffee, voice hot with _implication,_ “Boss allows you to close by yourself, mm? No one around, just us…” 

Despite himself, Akira’s pulse jumped, wetting his lips as Goro watched him with heavy-lidded eyes over the rim of his cup. Akira leaned his weight on the breakfast bar, opposite Goro, and smiled. 

“...you gonna put that in your therapy journal?” he asked, his smile turning into a full blown grin when Goro snorted messily into his cup, “Talk to Dr. Aoki about fucking a barista in their own coffee shop-”

“ _Fuck-_ shut up,” Goro coughed, wiping his mess up with his sleeve in a rough, sloppy way Detective Prince Akechi never would’ve done, “ _No,_ I am not putting it in my _therapy journal._ What do you take me for?” 

Akira straightened up with a doubtful hum, mostly for show. 

“Someone who proudly daydreams about fucking his boyfriend in a coffee shop,” Akira’s smile turned crooked, “You know the door’s made of see-through glass, right?”

“That’s it, I am never letting you know about my sexual fantasies ever again.”

“Elderly people walk by all the time, even late at night. They’ll definitely _see-_ ”

“I,” Goro slid off the creaky stool and brandished his _therapy journal_ like it was a fearsome weapon, “Will not sit here and be mocked.”

He re-located exactly six paces behind him, where the kotatsu and television set was. Their shared apartment was very small, after all, a kitchenette squashed into the fringes of their main living area, one bedroom, one bathroom, and one very cramped closet to share between them. 

Akira wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Goro turned the television on, a pointed message to Akira that had him fondly rolling his eyes. He got started on dinner instead, intending to make a huge batch to freeze the leftovers for when it was just Goro.

When the curry was simmering, Morgana unearthed himself from where he had hunkered down for his late afternoon nap (it was the laundry hamper, once again shedding cat hair on their clean clothes. Akira forgave him).

“Is food ready yet?” Morgana asked him over the sound of Featherman murmuring from the television. A quick peek told Akira that Goro was writing in his journal, his expression calm and passively content. His hair was slightly messy, the collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and he had a pen mark on his cheek from his idle pen tapping. He looked absolutely perfect. 

“In a bit,” Akira bent down and scooped Morgana up, smiling when his kitty noise bumped his jaw, “Me and Goro are off to Leblanc tomorrow. You coming too?”

“Obviously,” Morgana sniffed, letting himself be held in Akira’s experienced one-armed hold like a baby. He then added in a suspicious tone, “Are you and Akechi gonna, after…?”

“Uh, maybe.”

“Ergh, then I’ll stay with Futaba.” 

Akira smiled sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Morgana’s tail swished, “But that’s okay. If you’re happy, then it’s okay.”

Morgana was a blessed creature, Akira thought fondly. He didn’t know how things would’ve been if Morgana had been standoffish and resistant to his and Goro’s relationship (luckily, most of the cat’s reservations had been slowly eroded over the past year when Goro showed no sign of nefarious plotting or deeds... and was also very easy to manipulate into buying fatty tuna for Morgana’s voracious appetite).

However, that didn’t mean Morgana wanted to sit in the living room and pretend not to hear them… yeah, when the mood struck. Akira understood. He would’ve felt awkward about it too. 

“Thanks, Mona,” he said, and kissed the cat on the top of his head. Morgana whined and wriggled free, and Akira let him with a quiet laugh, turning back to the curry. 

Yeah, this wasn’t the tidiest of happy endings but- 

He wouldn’t trade it for _anything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just... for me to dump self-indulgent akeshu oneshots where they'll range from disgustingly fluffy to the raunchy with a dash of angst on top bc these two can't walk ten paces without having some kind of emotional crisis
> 
> beginning of first chapter is me handwaving my whole 'why akechi ain't in jail' just roll with it im here for the romance atlus denied us
> 
> (feel free to shoot prompts too if you'd like! i can't promise to always fulfil them but ya know *jazz hands*)


	2. Hard Days

It was surprising how quickly society forgot things. 

Once upon a time, not so long ago, Goro used to be extremely popular in Tokyo. The new Detective Prince! Charismatic, intelligent and attractive enough to lean either way into ‘ _pretty’_ or _‘handsome’,_ depending on the eye of the admirer. Goro loved the attention it gave him, loved how it instantly hammered down a hierarchy between him and the common masses - popularity did mean people felt entitled to your time, but they kept their distance too. You were too superior for them to touch you, get close to you, invade you. You drew the line, and they did not cross. 

_(and those who did? they were shido’s and )_

Now, Goro was just another face in the crowd. Entirely by choice, for that matter. The aftermath of Shido’s trial had been… beyond messy for his reputation. Akechi Goro went from Detective Prince to _victim_ and/or _psycho_ overnight. If people didn’t vomit overwhelming pity about his circumstances on him, they showered him in scorn instead. 

( _“why didn’t you just leave?” “why didn’t you just kill_ him _?” “why didn’t you tell anyone what he was doing?” “why didn’t you say no?” “why didn’t you why didn’t you_ **_why didn’t you_ ** _-”)_

Anonymity was an absolute _blessing_ after all that _shit._

Goro, after his own sentencing, quietly shuffled out of the spotlight. The media grew bored when he didn’t immediately abuse his miraculous freedom and have a psychotic breakdown in public for everyone to gawk at. Quickly, weeks, short months, Goro was forgotten about, old news, nothing more interesting than _“that psycho Shido tried to turn into a creepy kid assassin”_ . There were a few die-hard forums knocking about waiting to post a ‘ _Where Are They Now’_ segment on him. They probably hoped he’d flip his shit and bite the head off a chicken in the middle of Central Street for extra drama points. 

But anyway. 

He developed a few habits from ducking attention and media in the immediate aftermath of Shido’s trial. His sweater vests were traded in for nondescript hoodies, hood drawn up and head kept down - he had told himself the scruffy outfits were temporary, until he wouldn’t be recognised on sight, but he slowly found himself keeping it. 

There was something comforting now, about hiding underneath a hood, even if it made him look like, as Akira put it, _“a delinquent getting ready to bully the arcade kids.”_ Yeah, well, maybe emitting _delinquent_ vibes _also_ kept people the fuck away with him, even if it meant getting pulled aside by the cops from time to time. 

( _ugh, those were always awkward. ‘wait, aren’t you the disgraced detective prince?’ ‘why, yes, officer, i am indeed the high schooler unwisely given access to police records to manipulate and pass onto Shido right under the cops’ noses. yell it out for the whole street to hear!’ ugh. ugh!_ )

Some days… some days were really hard. 

“Goro.”

“Mm?”

“You’re making _that face._ ”

“I am not,” Goro said, knowing full well he was making _that face._ The teaspoon next to his cup was shiny enough to give him a warped reflection in his peripheral. It was, indeed, a very _that face_ expression he was making.

Akira did that annoying _“hmmmm”_ noise where he thought Goro was full of absolute bullshit, but was too polite to say it. 

Goro ignored him, too tired to hold a proper conversation without snapping. It was late in the afternoon, and they were seated at a cafe close to their university campus (‘luckily’ they went to the same university for their studies! What a coincidence! hah), their finicky schedules aligning like the stars to allow them a peaceful moment to avoid their coursework back home and eat their weight in pastries and drink inferior coffee. 

_(god, boss really has ruined coffee for him. this was unfair)_

Akira gently knocked his foot against the side of his ankle, the edge of his sole catching Goro’s sock, “Hey.”

Ugh, he wasn’t going to let it lie, was he? 

Akira leaned forwards on his elbows when Goro kept ignoring him. He didn’t say anything, and the intense staring and silence finally prompted Goro to reluctantly look up from his phone. He was wiki-surfing and was reading something about the architecture of Notre Dame. None of it was sinking into his brain. 

“I’m not a mindreader,” Akira told him seriously, like this was a legitimate thing Goro didn’t know. 

“Really? I’m shocked.” 

“Just thought I’d remind you,” Akira gave him a crooked smile, the one Goro thought was unbearably cute and made him want to bite him all at the same time, “Bad day?”

 _deflect,_ came the knee-jerk instinct. It would be easy enough to do. Goro knew Akira well enough to spin some bullshit and send him tumbling down into some adjacent mental rabbit hole of sadness. Akira will cotton on later and get _disappointed_ , but that would be future Goro’s problem, not his. 

With great, supreme difficulty, he smothered that knee-jerk instinct with a very deep inhale. 

“No,” he admitted, “Today has been very good, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Goro didn’t want to talk about it. Fuck, he didn’t want to. He put his phone down on the table and picked up the teaspoon, tapping it against the table. Shitty habit he picked up somewhere in the past year, he didn’t know where. Akira, maybe. It drove people up the walls, so he kept doing it. 

Akira watched his spoon with avid interest, “And you don’t trust it.”

Ugh. “That sounds stupid.”

 _‘TAP TAP TAP TAP!’_ went the poor abused teaspoon. The couple the next booth over were giving him annoyed looks.

“It isn’t stupid,” Akira said, immune to the irritating sound of cheap stainless steel smacking something solid. Annoying.

“It’s what crazy people think,” Goro muttered _._

 _‘TAPTAPTAPTAP!!!’_ went the very aggrieved teaspoon.

“...you’re upset that it’s almost the anniversary of Shido’s trial, aren’t you?” Akira said, deciding to slice through the bullshit and latch onto the jugular of _the issue._ His directness never allowed Goro the time to twist himself into a hidden, convoluted corner of white lies and deflection, much to his relief _and_ consternation.

The teaspoon went still. 

“Akira,” Goro started, then stopped, then started again, “Are you _sure_ you’re not a mindreader?”

“I just know you,” Akira said easily, that cute, crooked smile creeping across his face again, “And it’s okay to feel anxious because of- all that.”

All that. Funny, how the worst year of Goro’s life could be summarised neatly and inoffensively as _‘all that’._

“I hate being… anxious,” the word felt like it had been wrenched from him with a set of pliers, his mouth pressing into a firm line, “Not that I am.”

“Sure,” Akira said, “You’re not anxious.” 

Goro gave him a narrowed stare, “Don’t just agree with me.” 

“Okay,” the crooked smile flickered into Joker’s grin, “Goro, you’re full of so much furious anxiety it’s giving me second-hand nerves. Is that better?”

“No.” 

“So hard to please,” Akira purred, gently nudging his leg against the side of Goro’s calf, stroking up and down in a slow, rhythmic movement, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Goro hated how the knots of tension in his shoulders relaxed a fraction at the gentle touch against his leg. Akira was so unfair, he fucking hated him, “Talking about it makes me want to punch shit until my fingers break.”

“Please don’t do that,” Akira said in that light joking tone that meant he was absolutely serious, which, fair, Goro regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, but they were out there now. 

“I won’t. It’ll be too inconvenient to deal with,” Goro said, and quickly added when Akira’s expression dropped into a frown, “Drop it. I think we should go back home now.”

“...” Akira studied him for a moment, but he eased back, “Sure.” 

Goro could already envision his session with Dr. Aoki tomorrow being a shitty one after today’s conversation, but he shunted it to the side for now. Compartmentalisation, a gift he never quite relinquished, even if it was the bane of his many issues. Let’s box up those nasty feelings, shall we? Yes, please. Onto the back burner it went, to be painfully examined at a much more inconvenient time!

They left the cafe and into the brisk autumn air that had them huddling close. Akira’s hand found his gloved one, and Goro forced himself to breathe out some of his tension. 

It was hard. Very hard. Sometimes he felt like he was contorting himself into an unwanted shape to fit into this new life he was building, but it was getting easier every time. It was making him _happier_ , inch by painful inch, even if that happiness took an entirely different shape to what he envisioned it back when he was sixteen and _angry._

He looked back on that boy sometimes and thought; _what a waste._

Happiness for him at sixteen was to be seen, to be loved and wanted, to bury a bullet between Shido’s eyes and laugh and laugh as everything crumbled to ash around him. Stupid. 

Now, happiness was… something like this, even if it was hard to keep a hold of and he felt like he did more backward steps than forwards. But he was getting there, and he didn’t have to burn down Japan or become a murderous lapdog for it. 

“I think this is ‘curl up in bed and watch movies’ weather,” Akira sighed next to him, “Sound good?”

Goro smiled. It was completely genuine and required no effort. Happy. 

Some days were hard… but he was learning they were more than worth the effort.

“Sounds good,” he said, and let their hands swing gently between them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i will make these self-indulgent and cute  
> my brain: angst  
> me: fuck off
> 
> i.e sorry angst snurgled in but heeeeeeey it was fluffy at least!


	3. Nightmares

Goro wasn’t a stranger to nightmares. In fact, it was more accurate to say he was a stranger to normal dreams in general, his mind always ready and eager to belt-feed his subconsciousness with all the fuck ups, near-misses, and fatal what-ifs that festered quietly in the back of his mind. 

He had too many sins to name and all of them crowding for a centre spot. Goro had become desensitised to them long ago; Metaverse fights gone wrong, him dragging his half-dead carcass back to the real world, navigating Shido and his predatory circle of maneaters, Mother’s suicide, the foster homes, the everything - nothing new, easy to brush off in the minutes after jerking awake. 

However. 

Ever since the Phantom Thieves, ever since Maruki, ever since his own incarceration, however brief, and the conclusion of Shido’s trial, a new set of nightmares had come to roost. Sharp-fanged, always able to draw blood when they deigned to descend upon him, more difficult to brush off after jerking awake, soaked in cold sweat and panting like a cornered prey animal. 

Here’s one such nightmare: 

Everything is dark except for the occasional flash of a klaxon alarm, an artificial voice cheerfully announcing that the bulkhead is closed. He’s crawling on the floor trying to get out, but he can’t breathe, he’s bleeding to death, and no one’s coming for him, he is alone, alone to die, and there is the scraping of Shadows’ claws and the light steps of his cognitive self easily catching up to him, click of a pistol’s safety and

He wakes up. 

Here is another nightmare:

He is living in a paradisiacal reality but every movement is agony. His puppet strings are razor wires and they cut a little deeper each time they jerk his limbs to their tune, and words that are not his slip from a smiling mouth, following a shallow script of happiness. Akira holds his puppet strings, but he too is strangled by them, and 

He wakes up.

Another nightmare: 

Goro visits Leblanc and Akira is there, except they’re both in their Metaverse outfits. Akira as Joker, and Goro as Black Mask. Despite this strangeness, everything is normal. Coffee is served, conversation flows - though the words don’t make sense, like it’s all being done behind a thick, soundproofed glass and in a different language - and there is a pistol with a silencer about an inch from Goro’s hand on the Leblanc counter.

Neither of them reference it - until Goro calmly picks up the pistol and shoots Akira in the head without warning. 

He wakes up with the immediate urge to vomit.

He hated that nightmare the most. 

* * *

Akira woke up to Morgana swatting insistently at his nose. 

“Hey, Akira, _hey_ , wake up!”

“Mmnghffn?” Akira asked intelligibly. 

“Oh, good,” Morgana stopped hitting his nose at this response, “You need to get up. I think Akechi’s ill or something.”

 _That_ made all of Akira’s grogginess evaporate into nothing. He jolted upright, blinking blearily as Morgana protested his abrupt movement - the space next to him was empty, the blankets thrown back as if the previous occupant had left in a hurry. The room was dark, but their bedroom door was open and he could see the thin ray of light from a partially closed bathroom door cutting across their living room. 

“Shit,” Akira mumbled, rubbing at his face. Of course Goro wouldn’t wake him up if he was feeling ill. Stupid, prideful man, “I’ll go see him. Thanks, Morgana.”

“I asked if he wanted me to get you, but he just told me he was fine,” Morgana huffed, “He didn’t even try to give a good lie. He looks _awful._ ”

Akira soothed him with a gentle scratch behind the ears, and got out of bed. 

He found Goro leaning over the sink with his head bowed, forehead pressed against the mirror. Akira gently knocked on the door frame, frowning when his boyfriend jumped violently. He hadn’t been quiet at all walking over here. Akira decided not to tease him for headbutting the mirror - it clearly wasn’t the time.

“Hey,” Akira said softly when Goro didn’t turn around, just stayed hunched over the sink, “You good?”

“... I’m fine,” Goro replied, his voice rough, “Go back to sleep, Akira.”

“Not really tired,” Akira lied. He didn’t want to know what time it was, he had an early class tomorrow - or, this morning, probably. He waited, but when Goro didn’t move or reply, he stepped into the bathroom. 

It was a tiny room, just had a sink and toilet (the shower was in a separate room and even smaller, practically a box), so two steps and Akira was already directly behind him. Goro’s bare shoulders were a tense line, muscles taut in his back. Akira gently pressed the flat of his palm between his shoulder blades, covering the pale scar tissue of an old, should-have-been-fatal, bullet wound.

Goro flinched slightly, but he didn’t pull away, so Akira let his hand rub up and down his back until he felt some of that tension ease. 

“C’mon,” Akira said, stifling a yawn with his free hand, “It’s freezing in here, Goro.”

It really was. It was the middle of winter, the outside of the nest of warm blankets in their bed, the rest of their apartment was chilly - especially if you slept in only your boxers like one Akechi Goro. His boyfriend didn’t seem to feel the cold, though. 

Goro sighed, finally lifting his head to catch his eye in the mirror; “...alright.” 

Morgana was right: Goro did look terrible. 

Akira pointedly said nothing about it, though. If he did, Goro would _immediately_ get all defensive and closed off, something Akira didn’t want to deal with in the middle of the night. It was easier to pretend everything was fine, like he wanted, let him lower his guard and relax. Sometimes that was all he needed, not to be prodded and poked every time he stumbled or hit a weird mood. 

Morgana was curled up on their pillows when they came back, and was reluctantly shooed to make room. They bundled themselves back under the blankets, Akira coaxing Goro to snuggle (which he did so with only minor grumbling, surprisingly) while Morgana was banished to curl up against the small of Akira’s back. 

Goro still felt tense. Akira let his arm rest over his waist, fingers lightly trailing up and down along his boyfriend’s spine, catching on the few, scattered scars of old bullet wounds. There were four in total, evidence of how miraculous Goro’s survival was. He could thank Maruki for this one thing, he supposed, even if no one could explain how Goro’s revival translated to their real reality. 

Akira wasn’t going to question it. 

“Feeling better?” Akira murmured, as slowly, painfully slowly, Goro relaxed into his arms. 

“I felt fine before,” Goro replied stubbornly, frowning Morgana’s muffled scoff of disbelief somewhere under the blankets, “Shut up, Morgana.” 

“S’okay if you weren’t,” Akira said. After a year, he had hoped Goro would be a little more forthcoming when he felt ‘bad’, and sometimes he was. Mostly he wasn’t, still stubbornly digging his heels in or burying shit until it bubbled up later in a brand new festering form. Akira knew this whole thing was a slow process, but, god, he found it frustrating sometimes. Just talk to him, Goro. 

“...” Goro shifted slightly, a little away from him, but Akira gently tugged him back in again, hand flat against his back and a leg thrown over his hip. He will cling to him like a koala if he had to. 

“Hey,” Akira murmured, tone soft and low, when he wasn’t pushed away, “Goro.”

“You are so annoying,” Goro whispered, but there was no heat in his voice. His chin dipped down a fraction, so Akira pulled him in that little bit more, to let his boyfriend hide his face in his shoulder if he wanted. Goro’s soft hair tickled his cheek. 

Akira waited, even if the position they were in meant that Goro was lying on his arm. He was going to lose all feeling in that pretty quickly but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

“It was…” Goro finally muttered, “Just a bad dream, Akira.”

Considering Goro regularly brushed off bad dreams like they were something normal, this made Akira raise his eyebrows, “Must’ve been a really bad one to get under your skin.”

“Mm.”

“...tell me about it?” 

Goro didn’t immediately reply. He shifted in Akira’s hold, as if to pull away, before settling again. Akira recognised his movements as being _anxious,_ so he tried to stay as relaxed and loose-limbed as possible - pretty easy, since he was very cosy right now and it was taking every scrap of willpower he possessed to keep his eyes open. 

“Go to sleep, Akira,” Goro finally muttered, “I can feel you dozing off.”

“Why don’t _both_ of you go to sleep,” Morgana grumbled, squirming out from under the blankets to give them both a narrow-eyed (sleepy) glare, “It’s three in the morning…”

Ugh. 

Well, Akira knew when to admit defeat. He sighed and closed his eyes, smiling when Morgana settled down on the pillow just behind his head. Goro didn’t pull away from him, at least, which Akira marked as a minor victory (he tended to physically retreat when he felt too vulnerable, which, fine, okay, he _got it_ ).

“Wake me up next time,” Akira mumbled into Goro’s hair, “You have a bad dream.”

Goro didn’t answer, but that was fine. Akira wasn’t expecting him to keep that sort of promise anyways. 

* * *

But sometimes Goro had nice dreams too. 

They were rare and tentative, and when he woke up from them he felt a strange sort of guilt about it, like he was handed a reward he hadn’t entirely earned. Still, he enjoyed them when they came, selfishly. 

Here’s one such nice dream: 

He and Akira lived together, and the baggage of their pasts were not erased, but were managed. Goro didn’t choke over the more emotional side of things. He was someone who Akira really deserved, but without having to shave off the parts of him that were unsavoury. 

He wakes up when Akira says ‘I love you’. Even his subconscious is too cowardly to reciprocate.

Still. 

It was a nice dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: okay time to write nice sweet canoodling in bed-  
> my brain: *tightly grips my hand* you gotta put in angst  
> me, sweating: b-but, canoodling...  
> my brain: you gotta put in angst
> 
> one day i will write porn


End file.
